LAST NIGHT I PLAYED TENNIS

Last night I played tennis with Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, at the tennis center. We have been swatting the ball for four decades now. We started at the Border's Apartments. In those days we used to call the complex a poor man's country club. There were two courts, a swimming pool and lots of white chicks who had come south from the Midwest to work in the school district when the BISD had a teaching shortage. Those were the good ol' days, Matamoros our usual playground. We embarked on adventurous sojourns into the wee hours of the morning. Contemporary youth have no idea the education they have lost as a result of the chaos and violence in Mexico.

I have been hitting the ball better. I'm not trying to place winners. The majority end in unforced errors. I'm keeping the ball in play, whacking it hard and deep. (I guess you could say I'm making love to the ball.) I'm a 3.5 player capable of beating a 4.0 on occasion. The conditions yesterday were perfect. There was a nip in the air and no wind. In life we trudge through out existences waiting for the moments. Estanislao and shared a moment of perfect delight.

Afterwards we went to Johnny Carino's. Since I've been gone all summer, I haven't stopped at the restaurant. The company has completely redone the establishment with a significantly larger bar and a more open layout. I suppose it was a pre-emptive strategy with Olive Garden opening soon. As usual, we ate and drank while a boring baseball game and an exciting NFL encounter played on the many televisions. I kept it light: a small Hawaiian pizza, two drafts and a glass of wine. I went home and was asleep by midnight.

I awoke early, checked out the news on the internet and walked to Stripes in the crisp morning air. Fall is in the air. At the convenience store I ordered a tortilla with beans and a cup of coffee. I retired to a table with El Bravo where I breakfasted. This has become my morning ritual as I embark on my first days of retirement after 39 hard-fought but successful years in the classroom and on the soccer pitch. I owe the BISD nothing. In the end the administration intimidated me into retirement. My superiors told me in unequivocal terms: Either quit writing artistically or lose your job! I chose to quit my job in order to pursue my most faithful love.

I have been adhering to the school calendar since kindergarten. Without that schedule, I feel like I'm floating in a void. On the negative side, I'm drinking too much although there have been several fun nights. Downtown is my favorite escape with the Palm Lounge, El Hueso de Fraile, Terra's Bar & Grill, the Kraken and The Library offering plenty of libations, tasty food and companionship. I even slip across the bridge to Garcia's or the Santa Fe restaurant for meals. At the end of a long night someone may offer me a ride, I may take a cab or I stay at the Cameron Motel. There is an ambience to downtown's streets. With the Half Moon opening soon and two or three other bars on the horizon, I relish the atmosphere.

I have been tending to The McHale Report and my Facebook all morning and into the early afternoon. I steal from the dying daily, better known as The Brownsville Herald while incorporating articles from the other blogs: Juan Montoya's El Rrun Rrun; /DP-M's The Brownsville Republic; Jim Barton's The Brownsville Observer; and Bobby Wightman-Cervantes' The Brownsville Voice. Sometimes I'll include several of my pieces and sometimes I only post one, but I place photos between the articles with headlines that true aficionados of the Third World Capital of the United States can appreciate.

I am not taking prisoners these days unless they advertise. I respect those who respect me. They say journalists have few friends because in our estimation copy takes precedence over a compadre. It's all about the story. In fact, the rest of my life will always be about the stories. The creative process gives me worth. My boys are busy with their lives. My latest ex treats me with disdain as her lips curl and twitch in an unattractive fashion when I am in her presence for any length of time, but I still desire her despite her volatile temperament.

It is exactly two. I ate a steak at Denny's and presently I'm sitting nude on my bed composing this piece as if I were blowing on my sax. Real music, as well as real writing, often comes from improvisation. In an hour after my lunch has digested, I'll do my American yoga: a series of pushups, situps and stretching exercises.

My youngest son has his first tackle football game this afternoon. I already have butterflies in anticipation of the action. He is on the Manzano seventh grade A team, starting at end on offense, corner on defense and return man on the kickoff team. I've told him football is a waste of time and he should concentrate on golf and swimming, but nobody listens to me and I feel no need to impose my will on anyone. He is beautiful boy and football is a rite of partnership for him. Daddy has become very secondary these days.

In the evening I may dine with the ex and my son, but I reside on the periphery of their lives. I have no desire to imbibe this evening. I may spend some time working on my 15th book, which I hope to publish on Amazon next year. Entitled Buried in Brownsville, it will be my longest literary undertaking yet unless the critics consider the trilogy delineating the Trials and Tribulations of Tommy Tamaulipas one work.

I have no idea about the immediate future except write, walk, exercise, play tennis, strum the guitar and read. I have jettisoned my plans to travel to Portugal or Argentina. There are too many hassles and too much money spent wandering the streets solo compromising my loneliness in the arms of a prostitute. I'm curious about the possibilities of a foray to Puerto Rico where my credit cards work and my insurance covers me. Puerto Rico is exotic enough to test my wings with some sense of financial security. But, to be quite honest, I don't know my destiny. I'm waiting for my own desperation to provide me with clarity.

And thus I conclude my performance art. I imagined myself playing Happy Hour in Austin's Elephant Room. I was little more than background music, which was fine with me. You can work on your licks more diligently and experiment without fear of rejection because the patrons are content with muffled sounds in the background while they shoot the shit with their friends about sports, politics and the opposite sex. In the world of cheap thrills, there's always the hope that there might be a fuck during the diurnal trek through another forgetful day. It's nice to get the poison out of the system, even if your only option is your wife of who knows how many god awful years of marriage as her body starts to look worse than yours.